


The Wolf and the Viper

by Redorangeyellowflickerbeat



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Slow Burn, being remade with different pairings, sorry folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redorangeyellowflickerbeat/pseuds/Redorangeyellowflickerbeat
Summary: Rovele had spent many years on the Path, alone. She was used to the reception she gained, the insults and cruelty. She envied the Wolf who had risen above the reputation of their order.Then she met him, and suddenly... her Path was no longer so lonely.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 86





	1. Monsters and Men

**Author's Note:**

> No Geralt in this chapter! I want you to meet Rovele first.

A few weeks ago, there had been sixteen of them crowded into the small room, squeezed into beds barely big enough for them. That was no longer the case, though. The Trials had culled their numbers more than training had, taking life after life until only five of them remained. They were stronger now than ever before, standing shoulder to shoulder as they waited to be called into the courtyard for initiation. When they were called out, Rovele found herself standing straighter, her shoulders pulled into a tense line to try and be closer to matching the heights of her ‘brothers.’ Her silver eyes followed each of the instructors as they took their places, gaze trailing down to flicker over the medallion worn by each, following the twists and coils that represented the school’s namesake. After today, she would be wearing one of her own, she thought with a giddy feeling in her stomach. But as the last instructors brought in the gear, she realized only four of them held the gear they were supposed to be given. She couldn’t help but break the line to glance over at the others, wondering who might not have earned their gear.

With a growing pit of anxiety in her stomach, she realized it could be her. She was, after all, the only female to ever survive the Trials, at least that she knew of. They might want to keep her close, study her, rather than let her go and do what she was made to. That thought filled her with dread, much more than she would have expected. No. It had to be one of the others, she’d worked so hard to meet expectations. Maybe it was Ancar, maybe they wanted him to stay behind and train the next set about how to craft potions and poisons, he’d always had a talent for it after all… But that hope was swiftly dashed as he was given his gear, medallion put over his head.

No one came to her, and she could stay silent no longer. “Where is my gear?” When no answer came, she balled her fists at her sides, looking her instructors in the eyes. “I finished my training. I survived the trials. So where,” she tried to not sound as desperate as she felt, “is my gear?” She saw guilt in their eyes, but what she didn’t understand was why.

“Rovele,” Folgred spoke while extending a hand to her, “follow me.” She didn’t take his hand, but she followed him out of the courtyard. She took one glance back over her shoulder, looking at her ‘brothers,’ but only Ancar met her eyes, face showing concern that he couldn’t voice before she lost sight of him.

* * *

Many years later found Rovele sitting in a run-down tavern, leather-gloved fingers wrapped around her pint of ale. The taste of it burned down her throat, but she didn’t react to it. She’d had decades to grow used to it, and Witcher endurance made it easy anyway. Her silver eyes scanned the room, meeting the eyes of over-curious patrons who mostly turned away from her upon landing under her gaze. She didn’t particularly care what they thought of her, not anymore.

Of course, she knew of the whispered words about Witchers like herself. That they were freaks of nature, that they were emotionless, barely a step above the monsters that they killed. But as long as they continued shelling out the coin she was owed for monster contracts, she didn’t much care.

Her eyes locked onto the movement of one of the patrons as she took another swig of her drink, watching as he approached her table with the scent of nervousness pouring off of him. It almost made her smirk—it was good when they smelled afraid. Then they wouldn’t be so cocky with her.

“I’ve got a job for you, Witcher,” he fidgeted with the collar of his jacket, eyeing her weapons for a moment. “If you’re interested, that is.” She didn’t acknowledge him verbally, just raised an eyebrow as she turned fully toward him, waiting for him to explain. “My family, we own livestock. And well, we, uh, usually we would handle-“

Rovele rolled her eyes. “Boy, I don’t care the reasons about why you are hiring. Get on with it.”

His cheeks turned pink, and he nodded while rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah, of course. As I was sayin’, something has been eatin’ our livestock. And it ain’t just a sheep here and there, three of our pigs were killed last night, right before they were ready for market. Left the carcasses a bloody mess. Guts everywhere. We can’t keep having our livelihood butchered, you understand?”

Rovele hummed, crossing her arms. “What will you pay me?”

“Two hundred orens, miss, upfront. Two hundred more after the job’s done.” He fumbled for the pouch, holding it out with a shaky hand. She took the pouch after a few more moments of thought. “Thank you, Witcher. I’ll take you to me family’s field.” Rovele picked up her pack and followed the young man out of the tavern and across town.

When they arrived at the field, Rovele could see the truth of the man’s claim. Three slaughtered pigs, with their innards strewn about. There was claw and bite marks in the carcasses. She walked closer to one of the corpses, kicking it. She reached into its body, digging around for a few minutes. “Damn,” she muttered, upon realizing what was missing. She stood up, shaking off the blood. “How frequent are these attacks? Monthly?” At the young man’s nod, she drew in a sigh. “I need to meet your family.”

He gave a shaky nod, moving to lead her over to the small house. Her medallion began to burn as she grew close, making her sigh. It truly was what she feared. “Why don’t you wait at the tavern for me to return?” She spoke to the young man. He nodded, and scurried off, leaving her to her thoughts.

This was going to be difficult, Rovele realized. There was no time to prepare to fight werewolves, but if she left them alone they could move from animals to humans easily, so she couldn’t leave them there. Drawing in a deep breath, she reached for one of the potions that she kept, glancing down for only a moment to confirm it was the correct one. It was inky black, and smelled acidic when she pulled the cork out. A single gulp was all it took to down it, the magic beginning to take effect almost immediately, sharpening her senses.

She waited a few moments to allow the potion to fully take affect, before pulling her sword. The leather of her gloves creaked as she tightened her grip on the hilt. The door gave way with an easy kick, all but flying off of half-rotten hinges.

Her silver eyes met four sets of angered gold, and she couldn’t help but sigh internally. It was a pack. The largest of the four lunged at her, and she quickly rolled out of its path while turning up her sword, slicing through the beast’s soft stomach as it went over her.

A howl split the air, causing her over-sensitive ears to ring, as the werewolf collapsed upon it’s side. The other three howled as well, when the body stilled, and she had barely returned to her feet when another one of them was lunging at her, claws swiping through her stomach. She didn’t really feel the pain, not at the moment, but she knew it limited the time she had to complete the job. With that in mind, she went for a stab into the closest werewolf, landing it with ease, but swiftly having to react to a lunge that came with enough force to easily crush her ribs, had she not thrown up _Aard_ in the last moment, throwing the werewolf back just in time, allowing her to draw a silver dagger and drive it into her attacker’s skull.

One remained, and she knew it would be desperate now. She put herself between it and the door, drawing two daggers. When it jumped at her to attack, she spun away from its reach, slicing it along the side with her daggers. It whined, but still tried to bite her. She caught it’s jaws when they drew close enough to her, and yanked her hands apart. Blood sprayed all over her, but it died with a wet _squelch_ as she dropped it to the ground.

She looked over the carnage with a sneer that was half a snarl, before collecting her weapons. The potion’s effects were beginning to ebb away, giving way to the sensation she knew would soon become pain. It started dull, but soon became sharp and nigh-impossible to ignore with each movement, even as she left the small hut to head back to the town. She hoped to reach it and explain before someone saw the bloodbath she was leaving behind and misunderstand.

Of course, someone had gotten there before her, judging by the angry group of men and women standing outside the entrance, blocking her when she arrived. “They were beasts,” Rovele began, tiredly. “They eventually would have snapped, eaten your hearts in the night and not even shed a tear.” She noticed the glint of metal—daggers, drawn from their sheathes. So this was how it was going to be, then.

“They were our friends—our neighbors!” one man shouted.

“Where is your proof, that they were monsters?!” Another yelled, and she knew it wasn’t the kind of question where an answer was desired.

“They were human!”

“Murderer!” One man spat, which stirred the already angry crowd into a frenzy. One woman bent to grab a stone, hurling it at Rovele, and more followed her example, beginning to hurl stones and insults in equal measure. She raised no hand in defense or retaliation, and soon, they moved to the statements she was used to hearing.

“Mutant freak!” and “Abomination!” were the ones she most heard, but she was distracted when one of the thrown stones met their mark, slicing open her cheek. The warm blood that spilt from it lit a flame of anger deep in her chest that she swiftly smothered. She glared at them all with slitted silver eyes, before turning away from them, toward the woods that surrounded the small town. It was the way of a Witcher, she supposed, not for the first time, to be scorned by the people she had been trained—created—to protect.

It took longer than normal, for Rovele to get enough distance between herself and the town that she could begin peeling away her damaged armor from blood-soaked skin with slowly numbing fingers. She could not stop the hiss that slipped between her clenched teeth, when she had to tug the leather away from where it had become stuck to the wound. After casting the leather aside, she looked down to assess the damage.

It was certainly a gruesome wound, she had to admit. The deep furrows left by the werewolf’s claws certainly would further scar her far from unblemished skin, but it wouldn’t kill her. It would certainly have killed a human, in fact it would have done so by now, but as a Witcher, she could endure far more. However, it still needed to be dressed properly in order to heal faster. With that in mind, Rovele fumbled for her pack, pulling out a needle and thread. It was difficult, stitching up her own wound, especially as the needle slipped between her bloody fingers, and the times she lost the thread in trying to tie it off, but she finally finished it.

Rovele knew, of course, that it would take time to fully heal. But it wouldn’t slow her down so much that she couldn’t do her work, a fact for which she was grateful. With her wound now cared for, she slung her pack back over her shoulder and began to walk. It was far from late enough in the day to stop, and her next job would likely be some distance away.

It was times like these, that she wished for a horse.


	2. Of Swamps, Bards, and Coin

Rovele’s wound took far longer than she would have liked to fully heal from. It didn’t stop her from working, of course, she took jobs in any town that would have her. There weren’t many towns that would, with her kind’s reputation, claiming they did not want her ‘blood money’ in their ‘fine establishments.’

Whenever they turned her away, she would simply shrug a shoulder and leave without a fight, and settle down a short distance from the town. Inevitably, someone would scurry out with a pouch laden with coin, requesting her services for a beast away from the eyes of their fellows. She didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, though, always taking the job and the coin without complaint. Most often, it was drowners or something of the like—still easy to deal with, but rather tedious. It was easy coin, though, so she couldn’t turn it down.

Which is how she found herself in her current predicament: knee-deep in swamp water, trudging through mud toward what was _supposed_ to be a drowner nest. She already had her doubts of that, but she did not voice it to the nervous alderman who had given her the job. Whatever it really was, she would be able to handle it or she would die. Either way, no tears would be shed for her sake.

She took in a slow breath as she grew closer to the ‘nest’, trying to find the wet-mildew scent of drowners, when she caught something far more caustic in the air. Acidic, mixed with the scent of death and rot. That was no drowner. She would have taken more time to prepare, perhaps downed a bottle of one of her potions, but then she heard the _scream_. Or, more accurately, two screams, that were followed by multiple splashes. She took off in a run, pulling two long daggers from the sheathes on her sides.

When she came upon the monster and its’ victims, she didn’t even pause at its arachnoid form. She whistled to get its ugly face turned toward her, ignoring its near victims for the time being, and threw both of her silver daggers into the beast’s head. They sunk in to the hilt, causing the monster to release a hideous, wailing scream before toppling over and shriveling up.

Rovele sighed in relief that it had gone down easily, pulling out her daggers and sheathing them after flicking the monster’s blood off her knives. With that done, she turned to the two whom she had just saved. Two young adults, with dirty blonde hair that, at the moment, was darkened by mud. Their eyes were wide, and mouths falling open as they looked at the Witcher in front of them in what she had to assume was shock. “Are you from the village?” she asked, not overly patiently. She had just begun to think the two were mute when their words seemed to return once more to them, all coming out in a burst.

“You saved us! Thank you, thank you so much, Witcher!” The young man was the one who first spoke, his sister was babbling out similar thanks. Rovele simply rolled her eyes in response, not needing or wanting the thanks.

“I was here to kill that creature, you two were just lucky I hurried. Now, are you from the village or not?” She reminded, waiting for a response while she stepped back over to the fallen kikimora in order to sever the head as proof of the finished job. She could only barely keep a smirk off her face when she heard the two gag at the sight. The sinews of exposed flesh was rather gruesome to the uninitiated, she knew this. However, that did not keep it from being amusing to her.

“Well—we sort of are, yes, that is to say—” The man seemed to be far more longwinded than the other, stumbling over his words. His face had a strange color to it though, so she had to assume he was still a bit nauseated by the head she was now holding.

“We’re staying there, but we’re travelers,” the woman spoke up, nudging the man to make him look away.

Rovele nodded, carrying the kikimora head as she began the slow trudge through the swamp back to the main road once more. She was expecting to hear the two as they followed behind her but she didn’t expect to hear them continue to talk.

“It just came out of nowhere! We were on the road looking around, and the next thing we know, we’re running for our lives through the swamp and ruining our clothes in the process!” The man dramatically complained, causing Rovele to glance back over her shoulder briefly. Their clothes did look rather mud-stained… but she more noticed the design and its quality. These two weren’t peasants, they were nobility, or at the very least were more well off than the common farmer.

“At least your lute is still in our room, we’d never be able to get it dry before it was ruined.” And with those words from the woman, Rovele realized what these two were. They were bards. The realization made her resist the urge to groan. Bards could be, at the best of times, incredibly dramatic, to the point of being extremely irritating to deal with. But, they often had more money on their person than the average townsperson. Perhaps, she could work this in her favor, get something out of them as payment for saving their lives. She doubted it, once it finally sunk in what had happened she half expected them to scream and take off running, but she still hoped.

“That’s true. Oh! We haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? I’m Volare, and this is my sister, Varantha. Of Oxenfurt.” Volare, as Rovele knew him now to be, addressed her once more. When she nodded her response, he spoke up again. “Might we know the name of our rescuer? I doubt you would like to just be called ‘Witcher.’” Rovele paused. They actually wanted to know her name? That didn’t make sense.

“Rovele,” she finally said after much deliberation, just as she finally could step out of the swamp for good. Without thinking about it, she turned to pull the two out of the muck as well. “Go back to town, and watch your surroundings,” she ordered, whilst looking around to double check the area.

She waited until she heard the two’s footsteps fade in the distance before she made her rounds about the area. Luckily, she found nothing else, and pleased that her contract was complete, she began heading back toward the town, doing her best to shake off some of the heavy muck and mud from her boots.

The path back to the small town wasn’t overly long, but by the time she returned, it was bathed in the warm light of the sun that was fading slowly over the horizon’s edge. While her muscles were sore from the long walk through the swamps, she knew she needed to go to the alderman first and foremost. It took a bit of asking around for someone to point her in the direction of his home. After handing her informant a coin for her troubles, she hurried her way there.

It took only a single knock of her knuckles against the door before it swung open to allow her entry. The alderman was a large, potbellied man with broad shoulders that made him a decently imposing presence at the door. Or would have, if she had not been a Witcher. He was holding a pouch full of coin in his hands, that he handed to her once she held out the head of the kikimora. She let out a hum as she checked the amount, giving a nod to acknowledge it was right. He had added some to the payment, but she wouldn’t complain.

Now she’d be able to afford both a hot bath and a room at the local inn. It would be nice to clean off the mud, at the very least. With that in mind, she began moving toward the local inn. It had a tavern on it’s main floor, that was quite full. All eyes turned to Rovele at her presence, but she said nothing in response, hearing music and cheers die out at her arrival.

Instead, she walked over to the owner of the establishment. “A room, a meal, and a bath.” She held out the coin.

“O’Course, Witcher.” The man sneered, but took her coin, placing a key in her open palm. “I’ll ‘ave the water and food sent up, post-haste.”

Rovele eyed him, before crossing the room to head up the stairs. Halfway up, she heard the music begin once more, the townspeople likely relieved she was no longer in their presence. The room was easy to locate, a single bed, a small table and chair, and a wooden chest to store supplies. A worker brought in a tub and began bringing in water as she began removing her armor. She had to chip mud off of some of the buckles in order to remove some of the pieces, but there didn’t seem to be any long-term damage to the leather, luckily. Once the tub was full, she locked the door, and began to disrobe in preparation for the bath.

In all honesty? She half expected it, when she caught wind of her two followers some time after leaving the town the following morning. It was… impressive, certainly, for the pair of bards to be so brave. But she couldn’t let them follow her. So, she did what she must.

So what if hiding in a tree was a bit ‘beneath’ most Witchers. The two were harmless, though stubborn, and therefore she had no reason to harm them. She waited until they wandered away, before dropping back down to the earth, continuing off down the Path. She doubted she would ever see the two again.

Besides. There was word of a job in Temeria, that would pay _very_ good coin. Well… as long as she got there before any other Witchers did. With there being so few of them left now, she had to hope she would. If they were really offering even _half_ of what she had heard, she’d finally be able to get a good horse and saddle, and maybe even some new armor.

Even if it didn’t, it was a monster that needed killing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait y'all, it's been crazy.
> 
> Please leave a review!


	3. The Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Wolf and a Viper meet on a Temerian contract for a vukodlak. What could go wrong?
> 
> A lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, obviously, set during the very beginning of Betrayer Moon. Hope you enjoy! Also, I do humbly apologize for the wait.

_“It comes on a full moon to feed. That’s what Ma used to say.”_ The boy laying in the cot had been utterly mauled. Rovele remained quiet to let the boy speak, closing her eyes as she tried to figure out what had attacked him… and to ignore the man across the room from her in the shadows, the one with the wolf medallion around his neck. “When a wolf crosses a maiden’s grave... A pregnant girl who died before her time.” He took a few weak breaths, before continuing, “That babe, it starts growing right in her belly. And when it's big enough, that babe rips out.” In a brief moment of lucidity, the boy looked at the two witchers who stood in the room. “Only it ain't a babe no more. It's a monster. A vukodlak. I swear, Witchers, that's what got me. I swear, I saw it. I swear on my Ma's grave, I saw it...” Back to delirium, the boy began to panic, causing the boy’s father to press a cold cloth to his brow, wiping away the sweat, soothing him as best as he could.

“Three thousand orens. Upfront.” Rovele’s eyes snapped up to the other Witcher when he spoke. Was he insane? This wasn’t the time! Even with her upbringing, she knew that! That boy would be dead within the hour, discussing the job could wait until then. But the father, with teeth gritted, stood up from the cot, walking over to the man and angrily pressing a pouch into his hand. Then he turned to Rovele, who shook her head when he held out a pouch.

“I take my payment after the work is done. Care for your son.” With that solemn statement, she turned to leave, stalking behind the other Witcher.

As soon as they were out of the man’s earshot, she spoke to the Wolf she was stuck with. “What the hell was that?! You couldn’t have waited until that kid was dead?” She stopped when he did, not flinching at his dead-eyed stare in response to her question.

“Do you think they would have waited, had I been tending to a dying fellow Witcher? They wouldn’t even wait for breath to leave his lungs before demanding I take up the contract he died on. So no, I will not give courtesies that will never be extended to our kind. You’ll learn when you are older, there is no benefit to being kind.” He spoke, no emotion in his voice other than a faint sense of disapproval.

Rovele held back the growl rising in her throat, knowing he was right. She shook her head and continued on, adjusting one of her knives. “We need to track this thing. If it’s a vukodlak, it will be hungry. We could make a trap of some kind.”  
  
“Better to track it to its own territory. Unsettle it there, these things are arrogant, they will believe themselves to be untouchable there. They will be more sloppy.” The other argued, and she nodded, understanding his logic. They had been told where the recent attacks had been and decided to go there to see if they could track the beast back to its lair.

They had been aware it would be a grisly sight to come upon, and Rovele wished she could say she was harrowed by the sight of bodies torn apart, chest cavities seemingly hollowed by the beast along with the mauling. The other Witcher, whom she had found out was named Remus, ignored the bodies to follow the trail that the beast had left behind. But… something felt off. Rovele knelt by one of the bodies, inspecting the wounds. Her eyes narrowed at the gaping wound in the torso that almost all of the bodies had. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was not being watched, she stuck her hand in, immune to the nauseating sound of wet corpse flesh squelching as she dug around.

The only organs missing were the heart and liver. That was… A bit odd, if it was a vukodlak, but perhaps it was a fluke. She moved to the next body, yet again digging her hand in. She soon found the same results: a missing heart and liver, but nothing else. Which meant it was no vukodlak. In fact, the only monster she knew of that was that picky was…  
  
_“Shit!”_ She jumped to her feet, drawing a pair of silver daggers as she sprinted off to find Remus. And find him she did, laying on the ground, with a lanky beast leaning over him.

It was tall, with long wiry limbs, flesh that looked half-rotted, stringy chunks of hair hanging down from its grotesque, malformed head. Its face was scrunched up, eyes almost appearing shut. Its thin, emaciated form was practically skin stretched over bone. On its abdomen hung a long strip of flesh she would have called intestines, had Rovele not known what it really was. Its maw was open, clawed hands bringing up a chunk of flesh from Re-the body beneath it. Rovele took a step back, slowly, trying her best to be quiet, but the head snapped to face her as her heel ground against a bit of gravel.

“Fuck!” Rovele shouted as the monster let out a deafening shriek, turning tail and running as fast as she could. She did not have to look back to know it was giving chase, and she didn’t dare to look how close it was, running as fast as she could, jumping over debris. She didn’t know if she would get away. She didn’t know if she _could._ It was a game of endurance, and she wasn’t sure she could outrun this thing.

As she took a sharp turn around a corner, it happened. Her foot slid on loose gravel, the momentum sending her crashing to the ground. She had no time to recover before the monster was on her, clawed feet digging into her legs as it bit into her shoulder. Rovele only saved herself with a sharp stab into the throat with her silver knife, getting it to rear back, then punching the wound to shove the knife deeper.

It howled as it fell off of her, and she scrambled to her feet, stumbling and running away as fast as she could manage, holding onto the wound now gushing blood on her shoulder. Her struggling had been the only thing that had saved her from getting her throat ripped out, but a precious few minutes remained before the blood loss made it meaningless. She heard the monster recover, heard the clatter of her knife being tossed onto the stone. But… She didn’t hear it come after her. Instead, she heard wind that filled her ears, before the black spots dancing in her vision spread, and she collapsed, knowing her death was swift.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, she was confused. The surroundings were familiar, but… If this was some kind of afterlife, it didn’t seem right. Why would she wake up in a small hut for her eternity? She sat up, the world seeming much larger than she remembered. Her body felt lighter too. She shook off the oddness, stretching as she moved outside. The sun stung like when she had drunk too many potions, and she raised her hand to rub at her eyes, looking around. There were others around, in the distance. Children, playing with wooden weapons, running around like nothing in the world was in any way dangerous. She supposed it wasn’t, after all, this was some kind of an afterlife. There was no way she was alive. So, she decided to walk toward the first woman she saw, who was watching the children while she sewed up what seemed to be an old tattered shirt.

The woman looked familiar too, but that didn’t make sense. She… had to be imagining it. The woman—who was so large compared to Rovele, yet another thing that made no sense—didn’t seem to notice her. She raised a hand to tug on the woman’s sleeve, twice in quick succession.

“Where is big brother? He promised he’d play with me today!” That was _not_ what she meant to ask. She was trying to ask what this place was. But the words, and the higher voice that came out of her, sparked a memory.

“Quiet, Irileth.” The woman—her mother—scolded, picking up her stitching once more.

She didn’t control the pout that immediately formed. “No! Where is Thedas, Mama? No one will tell me!” Her voice was petulant and angry, demanding in a way that had been beaten out of her in Gorthur Gvaed some few years after this exact conversation.

“I said, quiet!” Her mother snapped, and—she didn’t remember this before—her hand snapping out to pop the girl over the mouth, the light hit stunning her more than it stung, but still summoning tears to her little eyes. She ran away, right into the arms of one of her many older sisters.

Svodra, for what it was worth, picked her up like she was light as one of the feathers she used to pluck from her father’s fletching basket, carrying her off toward one of the nearby streams. She hid her face in her sister’s shoulder, sniffles and sobs fitfully breaking out of her shaking body.

“Hush, Iri’, none of that now.” She was set down, a hand stroking through her hair. “Just listen, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, though it was still through a series of sniffles.

“Don’t ask ‘bout Thedas anymore. Okay? It’s better if you don’t ask.” Svodra wiped away the tears from her puffy little cheeks, and she found herself pressing into the comfort.

“Bu’ why?” She whined, while Svodra simply shook her head and led her into the stream, distracting her with the minnows that swam around her little feet.

Anything her sister said in reply was muffled by the sudden ringing that filled her senses, the white light that overtook her, the sensation of her sister’s hand in hers fading away before she could even scream in protest.

* * *

This time, when she awoke, things… made somehow more and less sense. She _ached_ , which made sense, but at the same time, the ache meant she was still alive, didn’t it? And that… had to be impossible. She was lying in a bed, an actual _bed,_ not those hay stuffed cots that inns called beds.

When she tried to move, she could feel the pull of stitches and bandages, before a hand fell upon her shoulder and pushed her back down. She opened her eyes in a snap and came face to face with a woman. Dark skin, equally dark hair, brown eyes with a sort of light to them she never saw in common folk. “Who are you?” She asked before she could think about it.

The woman smiled, eyes gleaming with something that Rovele _knew_ spelled trouble. “Triss. Triss Merigold. And you, dear Witcher, owe me a favor. One I plan to collect on… Immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no Geralt yet! But next chapter, I SWEAR. 
> 
> Reviews = Faster chapters... and a happy writer!


	4. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wolf and a viper meet in Temeria... Clueless to Destiny's weavings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!! This chapter was going to be a lot longer, but I figured 18 pages was gonna be a bit much and split it up. It is still a bit longer than previous chapters! Enjoy!

Miles away from the mage’s lab in Temeria, a very different witcher was lying in a far different bed, enjoying far different company. Geralt laid back against the frame, eyeing the woman while she trailed across scars with her fingertips, with her lips, both feeling like pinpricks on Geralt’s skin, not that he reacted to it anymore.

“Now, this one I definitely know,” she said, when she came to one of the many littering his chest. He hummed noncommittally in a response, holding back a growl when she began to sing-song the lyrics of a song he wanted to pretend did not exist, “The vampiress bled, as white as a sheet, and yet her dead heart did beat, did beat…” Each word was punctuated by a kiss to his scars, until she came to one on his side. “The kikimora?” she mused, while kissing it as well. Then, she slid further, past his hips, to the leg he had somewhat bent up. She noticed the scar close to his knee, that had him resisting the urge to bear his teeth at the touch. “I don’t recall the bard singing of this one. Who would dare try and rob you of your treasure? A woman?” she asked, moving to kiss it, stopped by him moving his leg away.

“Princess,” he sighed, closing his eyes momentarily, memories of short brown hair and a fighting spirit he wished had been redirected.

The woman—what was her name again? D-something, maybe?—looked at him with a quiet sort of wonder, the look of people who realized Witchers sometimes did actually feel emotions, just… differently. “Were you in love?” Then, before he could have answered if he  _ wanted _ to, “What’s her name?”

_ Renfri. _ Geralt felt the word burn on the tip of his tongue, but he just shrugged, reaching vaguely over to the pint that was sitting beside the bed. “When you live as long as I do, all the names start to sound the same.” He lied. He’d never forget her name, he still woke up with it weighing heavy on him when the nights grew longer and the world grew harsher.

The woman sighed nevertheless, sighing as she reached for the vase full of water on her side of the bed. “Were destiny a kinder bitch,” she began, taking a deep drink before continuing, “a whore like me wouldn’t have to settle for her client’s telltales.” She took another drink, looking at Geralt as she sat up properly. “A friend of yours came through here last month, headed for Temeria.”

Geralt looked up from where his gaze had narrowed in on his scarred knee. “Friend?” He questioned, eyes narrowed.

“Another Witcher,” she explained, then scowled, “I blessed that prick with my fullest efforts, too, and he—”

Geralt couldn’t care less about her coming complaint. “What’s in Temeria?”

She looked at him, utterly flabbergasted. “Did you  _ not _ just hear me talking?”

Geralt merely raised an eyebrow at her, amused by the assumption he gave a singular fuck. “Shouldn’t you know when someone’s pretending?”

Before her offended stammering could become actual words, there was a pounding on the door. “It’s been three nights,” he heard the innkeeper say, from outside the room, “Pay up or get out!”

Geralt ignored him, looking at her. “Temeria?” he pressed.

The woman sighed. “It’s got a pest problem. A few miners rounded up 3000 orens to have it killed. Your boy took the coin, and ran. Few days later, some woman shows up, returns the money to the miners.” She explained.

Again, the innkeeper slammed his fist into the door. “You hear me?” he shouted, angrily now.

Geralt continued to ignore him, reaching for a coin pouch and tossing it to her. “Thank you, for… everything.”

“What about the room?” She asked, just as he burst in. Geralt simply gave a shrug to the man, who looked deeply offended by the nonchalance.

* * *

A few minutes later, just enough time for Geralt to dress himself, he and the innkeeper walked outside.

Roach was waiting, the chestnut mare huffing into his hand when he took her reins. “Don’t judge me,” Geralt grunted, holding up a finger, which the horse tried to take a nip at.

He turned back toward the innkeeper. “I’ll be back with payment in a few days. If anything happens to my horse…”

The innkeeper gave a short chuckle, crossing his arms. “You don’t scare me.” He declared, arrogantly. Geralt simply raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to the man, towering over him.

“Point me to Temeria,” he said, pointedly calmly, and the man raised a shaking hand to obey, apparently rethinking his earlier statement as he eyed Geralt’s swords.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgment, and with a pack now resting over his shoulder, he began heading off toward Temeria to find out what really was going on. He was a few hours into his journey when he saw a sign, haphazardly hammered into the dirt on the side of the main road down which he was traveling. “Temeria: Realm of monsters and cowardly kings,” he muttered to himself, reading it. Seemed there was more than just a minor pest problem, if the locals were this stirred up.

* * *

A few miles away from the Temerian border, Geralt found the mines. Humans and dwarves, the miners were a mixed bunch, but they were bound together by hard work and their families. Both of which were now being threatened by this monster.

“Years of attacks by this creature, and the king does nothing! We must force his hand: lay down our picks, and refuse to work!” One man declared, looking around at the gathered group.

“And a half-measure ain’t gonna do!” One of the dwarves declared. “We’ve got to move on. Plenty of work south of Sodden.” All the men were muttering agreements, before one stepped up.

“My son,” the man declared, “rest his soul, told me that in Nilfgaard the king diddled whores while his subjects starved. Then someone came, The Usurper. And he rallied the people, and they took back what was theirs!” All the miners were riled up now, shouting. “I say we follow their lead!” Cheers rose amongst the group, that were then undercut by a sardonic chuckle from the shadows.

Geralt stepped from the darkness. “So you can’t kill the vukodlak, so you decide to kill your king?” He chuckled again, “Great plan.”

The miner who now seemed to be their leader rolled his eyes. “Another fuckin’ witcher. Your kind already tried to swindle us once!”

Geralt sighed. “I take payment after the job is done, and for a third of the price. An apology from my guild to yours.”

The man narrowed his eyes at Geralt. “And if you can’t kill it?” he asked.

Geralt simply shrugged. “Then I die.”

Before anything more could be discussed, there was the sound of heavily armored men approaching. The miners raised their pickaxes like weapons, turning toward the sound, and Geralt’s hand shifted toward his sword before he saw the small regiment of soldiers round the corner of the mining tunnel. At their lead was a man of at least some rank, one Geralt would later find out was named Lord Ostrit.

“Please,” Ostrit began, “Everyone remain calm. Lower your weapons and return to your homes. If you do so quickly, and without further theatrics, you have my word that our king will not hear of this treason.”

“Foltest commits treason,” one of the miners spat, “He hides in his winter castle as we are eaten.”

Ostrit’s face looked pained, and he reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Mikal was a good boy, Tsoka, but revenge will not ease your pain.”

Tsoka shoved the hand away, spitting at the lord’s feet. The soldiers drew their weapons, ready to defend him, but Lord Ostrit simply raised a hand to signal them to stand down.

“You know nothing of my pain,” Tsoka all but growled before turning away, walking out of the mines, followed by the other miners.

All that remained was Geralt and the soldiers, now. “Does Foltest have a plan?” He asked, with arms crossed.

Ostrit looked at the soldiers, after a distasteful glance toward Geralt. “See this one back to our borders. Temeria has had their fill of witchers.”

* * *

The roads were snowy, as Geralt walked in the middle of the four soldiers riding along to ‘escort’ him. He tensed however, as his medallion hummed, sensing magic just before all four of the soldiers fell from their horses into the snow. His hand reached for his sword, pulling it from the scabbard.

“Witcher,” He turned sharply upon hearing a woman’s voice, seeing her cloaked, standing in the middle of the road. “You can lower your sword. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Geralt gave a toothy, sarcastic smirk. “Says the witch, hiding in the woods.”

She sighed. “Sorceress,” she corrected.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Witch,” he countered, making her snort.

“Triss Merigold. I serve King Foltest.” Geralt watched her as she lowered her hood, giving him a good look at her.

Geralt lowered his sword, but did not yet place it back in the scabbard. “So, he makes a show of kicking me out, then sends his errand girl to slip me some coin so I kill his monster. Not a very original plan for a king.” He said, mockingly.

Triss shook her head. “It’s my plan. My coin. And I don’t want you to kill the beast. I want you to help us save it.”

Geralt tilted his head. “’Us’?” he questioned, fully putting his sword away.

Triss just smiled, before turning around and waving her hands, muttering something under her breath. A portal opened, and she tilted her head toward it. “I’ll be right behind you.” She stepped aside, allowing Geralt to move forward and slowly pass through. It was certainly a new experience for the Witcher, and not one he was entirely enthused about.

The portal opened to what seemed to be a laboratory. The smell of brewing potions and growing herbs was a sudden onset, but he shook it off quickly, sensing more than hearing the sorceress appear behind him. She cleared her throat, before he heard a noise from another room. Ah, perhaps a second sorceress?

He could not fully hide his surprise when rather than another magic-perfect sorceress stepping out, it was an armored woman. Her hair was nearly white, but she looked no older than twenty-five. Her face was sharp, silver-gray eyes piercing from the moment she looked at him. He immediately noticed a scar, slashed across her left cheek. Continuing to look her over, he noticed that the armor she wore was well worn but cared for, and… That couldn’t be.

His eyes focused on the medallion resting on her chest. Silver in color, a disk with the raised etchings of a viper head. But… It had to be a fake or stolen. He had never, ever heard of a woman surviving the trials. This couldn’t truly be a female Witcher. “Who are you?” He finally asked, looking back at her face. Her eyes narrowed at him, anger burning there.

“Rovele.” She said, just a hint of an accent he vaguely recognized—Skelligen perhaps?—present in her voice. “And you must be Geralt of Rivia.” Her voice dripped with distaste. She looked at Triss, now, arms crossed. “You should never have brought him here. I could have handled it, Triss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what y'all think!!


	5. Witchers Don't Do Court Decorum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues directly after chapter 4's ending.

“Rovele, you are still healing, it nearly killed you,” Triss argued with the Witcher, moving to check on some potion while she spoke.

Geralt cleared his throat. “I’m going to assume that it is not a vukodlak, then?” He decided not to confront this fake-Witcher yet.

Rovele shook her head, “Definitely not.” Then, after a measured pause, “Perhaps you would like to see the victims to confirm my suspicions?” She decided not to tell him what it was.

Geralt considered it, for a moment, before shaking his head. “I would like to hear the story of why you don’t want it killed, first.” Better to get what information he could before having to deal with whatever it was.

Triss, having turned back to them, nodded. “Of course.” She took a deep breath, before beginning to explain. “Six years ago, stable hands started vanishing at the castle above the city. Before long, citizens were disappearing throughout all Temeria. Foltest’s royal guard soon realized the creature was coming from the crypt where the king’s sister Adda is buried. Rumor has it she was having an affair with a young man in town when she died.”

Geralt, listening to all of this, gave a slow nod. “Was she pregnant?” He was already putting the pieces together.

Triss sighed. “Well, if she were, that would make her child the sole heir to the throne as Foltest never married. The king fled the castle, ignoring the rising death toll. After Nilfgaard overthrew their king, the brotherhood couldn’t risk it happening again, so they sent me here three months ago to cure the creature.”

Geralt nodded, processing this. “Show me the bodies.”

* * *

The vaults beneath the castle held multiple open bodies, all covered in salt for the sake of preservation. Geralt was led to what seemed to be the most recent addition of the collection. He had to assume they were all victims of the monster in question. He noticed Rovele watching him as they got close, making herself comfortable leaning on one of the outcroppings of the wall. He ignored her as he and Triss walked to the coffin.

He only paused for a moment when he saw the man within, saw the medallion around his neck. He turned toward the two, anger just beginning to burn in his eyes. “You didn’t want the people to know it bested a Witcher, so you let them believe that he attempted to flee with their coin?” He accused. Before they could respond, he turned back to the body, clearing off the salt, so he could inspect the large cavity in the body. He had no hesitation about digging his hand into the open cavity of the chest, discovering what he had begun to expect. No liver, no heart.

“Well, you two clearly weren’t acquainted,” Triss commented, gaining an amused snort from Rovele.

“His heart’s missing, along with his liver. Only one creature I know is that picky of an eater. A striga.” He turned his head back to look at Rovele, hoping to see surprise, or at the very least fear, but instead he saw stoicism, with just a hint of approval.

Triss was the one frowning, though, looking at both of them like she had hoped he wasn’t going to say that. “Strigas are old wives’ tales, aren’t they?”

Geralt was about to explain, when Rovele spoke up, tone sounding like she’d said this already. “They’re extremely rare, as the only way to create one is through a curse, but they do, in fact, exist.”

Triss’s face turned grave when Geralt, after a moment, nodded to agree. “So, someone wanted Adda dead.”

Geralt nodded, humming in agreement, before adding, “But this curse didn’t stop with Adda. It turned her daughter into a monster.” 

“Her daughter?” Triss asked, eyes wide.

Rovele was the one who answered. “Strigas are female. This striga’s a princess. We need to speak to Foltest, now. The only way to cure her is find the curse, and to do that, we need the person who cursed her.”

* * *

Triss led them to Foltest’s dining room, where the man was gorging himself on a veritable feast. Meat, vegetables, fruits, all laid out in amounts far more than even the fat man could reasonably devour. Behind him stood Captain Segelin, who was eyeing both Triss and the Witchers who stood with her with disdain. “Miss Merigold, you were dispatched to settle a family affair, not to enlist a pair of mutant mercenaries for a game of sleuthing.” He said harshly. 

Triss glared at him, her arms crossed. “This is no game, Captain. Tonight is a full moon, and Rovele and Geralt already proved themselves invaluable. We believe we can cure the creature.” 

“You say she’s a girl,” Captain Segelin said snidely, “Then you will refer to her as Her Royal Highness.”

They were interrupted by the hurried arrival of Lord Ostrit. “Segelin, I believe urgency warrants flexibility in court decorum.” 

Captain Segelin shook his head. “These Witchers’ theories are nonsense. Princess Adda was the people’s angel. Who would wish to murder her?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “What about her lover?”

Captain Segelin scoffed, looking at the white-haired witcher. “Seditious rumors! Idle courtesans trading out boredom for jealousy.”

Triss decided to speak up, seemingly not noticing the way Lord Ostrit adjusted how he stood with a vaguely nervous air. “Perhaps, if you called off your guards, if we were able to search the abandoned castle, we could find clues as to who cursed her.”

“Except these Witchers would kill the princess as she sleeps, and collect the miners’ coin.” Captain Segelin accused, lighting a spark of rage in Rovele, who could stay silent no longer.

Rovele slammed her hands on the table, shaking it, causing Foltest to stop eating, to stare at her wide-eyed, along with all the others in the room. “Call her a princess. Call her a fucking unicorn if you would like. But she grew inside Adda, feeding on her petrified womb,” she hissed. 

Captain Segelin seemed to regain his voice after a moment, interrupting her, “Have you no respect?!”

Rovele simply ignored him, looking directly at Foltest as she continued, watching him grow more and more uncomfortable. “Mutating. Growing for years, until she got so hungry that she was forced to _slither_ out. Rotten muscle, bent bones, two spidery legs, claws dragging in the dirt. You can call her a princess, but she is an _overgrown abortion.”_

She watched as Foltest finally met her eyes. “Enough.” he said, and when Captain Segelin tried to question him, he finally barked out an order. “Leave!” 

Rovele looked at Geralt, and knew he saw her plan. They waited for everyone else to leave the room, pulling the door shut and bolting it closed. Immediately, guards began pounding on it, demanding they open the door, but the two ignored them, focusing their attention on Foltest. 

Geralt stalked toward the man, watching Rovele circle around the outside of the room, to flank him, should he attempt to run. He glanced up at Rovele, before finally speaking to Foltest. “Who is the princess’ father?”

Foltest gave no answer to the question, but before he could threaten them with an execution, he was stilled by the press of cold steel against his neck. Rovele was standing behind his chair now, the viper’s right hand holding a blade firmly against his throat and her left on his shoulder, holding him still. “You find out your sister was murdered and you don’t even _flinch_ , but when someone mentions the girl’s father…” Rovele’s lip curls into a sneer. “So tell us, why did you never marry?” 

“You are speaking to, _threatening_ , a king!” Foltest said, voice rising higher in nervous pitch as Rovele’s knife pressed closer to his fluttering pulse.

“That’s exactly our point,” Geralt said, finding that secretly, he didn’t actually mind Rovele all that much, and that she was not that unlike what he expected from a typical Viper. “Why not produce your own heir? You could kill the striga and avoid this revolt, but you won’t. Why drag this all out? So, why don’t you tell us, who is the striga’s father?”

Foltest looked at the two of them, but he wasn’t entirely scared out of his mind yet. “I remember hearing stories about witchers when I was a child.” He eyed Geralt specifically for a moment, “Is it true what they say? That the mutations that grant you your… abilities also erase your emotions? Must be. ‘Cause only a man devoid of all heart could accuse a brother of bedding his murdered sister while urging him to kill her daughter.” At that moment, the door burst open, and Foltest lifted a hand before they attacked, relieved that Rovele had stepped back. “Both of you, leave Temeria. Never return.”

* * *

As soon as the soldiers stopped following them, Rovele and Geralt made a silent agreement to head toward the abandoned castle. They hid just out of the sight of the two guards keeping watch of the gate.

“I thought you were a fake,” he admitted, after a long silence.

“Don’t really care what you think of me.” Rovele responded, coldly as he was beginning to expect, though he didn’t know why. “I’m going to do what Triss asked of me, then I am going to be in the wind, and I won’t think about you for another _second._ ” She growled, and he knew there was more to her hatred than just wanting to be alone.

“How many more hours do we have to stand here?” they heard distantly, from one of the two guards. 

“Too many,” the other man complained, with a heavy sigh.

The two Witchers’ attentions were turned away from the guards at the sound of approaching footsteps, tensing, before they heard Triss’s voice. “You were told to leave Temeria.” She reminded them, amusement coloring her tone.

Geralt couldn’t keep the amused curl of his lip, “But come on,” he chuckled, waving his hand, “These views.”

“Are you going to kill her?” Triss asked, after a moment.

“I don’t want the miner’s coin,” Geralt said with a frown.

“I don’t kill if I don’t have to.” Rovele said, 

Triss eyed the two of them. “Nor mine, apparently. What is this girl to you? Why do you two care?”

Rovele tensed up, eyes falling to the snowy ground they stood on, fists clenched, but Geralt wasn’t as bothered. “You first. I saw how Foltest and his boy spoke to you. Why help those who won’t listen?”

It seemed Triss was as eager to answer his question as they were to answer hers. “I’m sure someone as skilled as one of you two has already figured out several ways to get past Segelin’s guards.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but dipped down to pick up a small stone from the ground at his feet, chucking it at the gate behind the two guards. Immediately, they run away, barely keeping their hands on their weapons in the process. Satisfied, both Witchers stand, and make their way through the gate. 

* * *

Triss walked between the two witchers as they made their way through the abandoned castle. The corridors were littered with dust, dirt, and bones. “Temeria reeks of secrets,” she said, when she could bear the silence no longer. “I could sense them. Just like I could these bodies before we entered. I imagine you two sense them, too.” She glanced back, toward Rovele, who had been silent ever since she had asked her still unanswered question outside. She paused when they came across a portrait hanging on the wall, of two children. “Foltest and Adda. I remember seeing them at my ascension banquet. What happened to them?” She sighed, and glanced back toward the witchers, who had paused to look at her and the painting. “Not answering questions must be a pillar of both of your charming personalities,” she quipped.

Geralt shrugged, moving on. “We’re pretty sure Foltest is the father,” he told Triss, as they reached a staircase. After making their way up, they found a bedroom, clearly belonging to one of the royals.

Triss entered quietly, looking around. “This is Adda’s bedroom. Do you think it was him that cursed her? Could it really have been Foltest?”

Rovele shrugged with one shoulder. “Maybe. Kings have done worse for less.” She made her way over to the bed, taking a deep breath as she inspected the old and worn sheets. She frowned at picking up a particular scent, and gestured Geralt over. “Is this what I think it is?”

Geralt crossed the room to join her, pulling one of the blankets to his nose, taking a sniff of it. His eyes darkened, and he nodded to Rovele, tossing the blanket back down.

“I think I’ve found something,” Triss spoke from where she was inspecting the mantle over the hearth of the room. She’d found a hidden drawer, and once they had turned to her, pulled out a few letters from within. “It’s damaged but… They’re from Queen Sancia, Foltest and Adda’s mother. Listen.” She began reading the letter, “‘My dearest Adda, you must leave your room one day soon, my child. You must maintain your strength. Despite the crimes you have committed against the crown, you remain my only one, my little girl.” Triss took a deep breath before continuing. “Understand that you and Foltest may not see one another again.’ It’s a bit smudged here, ‘that your sin cannot be repeated you will’ it’s smudged again here ‘Foltest will take the crown despite his transgressions, and it is with a heavy heart that I say I am tempted…’ I can’t read the rest.”

“While that letter makes Queen Sancia a damning candidate, I believe we need to speak with Lord Ostrit once more.” Rovele said, staring at the bed with rage burning in her eyes, as much as she attempted to hide it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews = faster chapters??? And besides that, a happy author!

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make chapters come a lot faster!


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